Memory
by theHuntgoeson
Summary: Post-S3 Ep8. Many years have passed, and Gene has forgotten everything - until a visit to a long-abandoned flat sends him on a quest to rediscover his unremembered past.
1. Forgotten

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ashes to Ashes. If I did, it would have had a happy ending, and I wouldn't have needed to wrote this story.**

**Sorry for my long silence, one and all – in response to a number of requests I'm working on a sequel to "The Return", but broke off to do this angsty two-shot which wouldn't leave me alone until I'd written it. It's taken me some time to write due to real life issues, not least health (dental) problems). Anyway, here's Chapter 1, and I'll post Chapter 2 as soon as I can, hopefully next weekend. **

**Shortage of time is also why I'm about a month behind on reading and reviewing everyone else's fics. Sorry again – I hope to have an orgy of R&R'ing during the summer. **

"**True" was composed by Gary Kemp and performed by Spandau Ballet. As A2A lovers know.**

**As always, please let me know what you think! **

_Wendy: Fancy your forgetting the lost boys, and even Captain Hook!_

_Peter: Well, then?_

_Wendy: I haven't seen Tink this time._

_Peter: Who?_

_Wendy: Oh, dear! I suppose it comes of your having so many adventures._

_Peter (relieved): 'Course it is._

- J.M. Barrie, _Peter Pan_

Gene Hunt considered that life had been relatively good to him. There had always been things to learn, adventures to have, coppers to train, scum to catch, companions to booze with after hours, whisky in the cabinet and fags in his pocket. He didn't ask for more. There had never been any close friendships that he could remember, but he judged that relationships brought complications and were best avoided. New recruits joined his team, invariably complaining like good 'uns about their unexpected transfers, sorted out the personal issues that had dogged them, became the coppers that they should be, and were dispatched to the pub when their time came. Replacements always came along sooner or later. He had seen so many go through the door of The Railway Arms, that he couldn't remember the names or faces of any of those who had preceded his current team, even the ones whom he supposed must once have been important to him. He'd been in this job a long time. There was so much that he couldn't remember, after all these years. It was easier that way.

There were a few reminders of his unremembered past. He could not recall, now, why a old silver metal epaulette number 6620 should lie on the top of his filing cabinet, but he kept it there nonetheless, just as the same numbers were carved into one of the desks in the CID office and he would not allow them to be removed. Something at the back of his mind told him that it was important, although he no longer knew why. There were always more important things to think about, such as finding the scum who had blagged the sub-post office in Kirton Street, or deciding what to risk eating at Chung Ling Soo's Chop Suey House across the road at beer o'clock. Probably because of its proximity to the station, with its ready-made clientele, the building opposite had always been a restaurant, although it had changed hands many times, and over the years Gene and his team had faced an after-hours diet of fish and chips, Indian, Malaysian, Turkish, and now Chinese. There had been a vegetarian restaurant, but it had not lasted long: Gene had seen to that. He dimly recollected that there had been an Italian restaurant, once upon a time.

Another constant in his existence, was that one of his recruits always stayed in the top floor flat above the restaurant, and that the flat below it remained empty and locked. He had paid the rent on it, time out of mind, to keep it as it had always been. The payment was on standing order, and he had forgotten why he had started paying it in the first place, just that he always had. The matter was raised one evening, when he informed Mr Soo that the tenant of the top floor flat had transferred at short notice and would not be requiring accomodation any longer.

The previous evening, following an outstandingly successful take-down of a major drug-running operation, instead of the usual piss-up at Mr Soo's, Gene had walked DS Keith Miller across London Bridge to a pub. _The_ pub. Most of the time, to ordinary passers-by, its name was The Horseshoe. But on a night like this, when it was ready to welcome a new occupant, it was The Railway Arms, and its windows glowed with unearthly light. He had told Miller to go on in, said that he would follow soon, and had told him to set one up, and then stood, watching, while Miller walked up to the door, opened it, and disappeared from sight. As always, he had heard the sound of laughter and conversation as the door opened, mingled with the inevitable strains of Bowie. But this time, he had thought for a moment that he had heard something else: a woman's voice, crying out in despair. The impression had been so strong that he had looked all around, to see if anyone was about who needed assistance. But there had been nothing. He had satisfied himself that the area was quiet, and then gone on his way. As had happened before, he had been faintly tempted to go inside, but he had quickly shrugged the thought away. There would always be more coppers, needing him to teach them the way to go.

In Mr Soo's restaurant, he dragged his attention back to the matter in hand. "Yeah, Miller's transferred. Promotion. He's moving away. I'll get one of the team to clear the flat an' send 'is stuff on."

Mr Soo, like his predecessors, was used to the top floor tenants leaving at short notice. "Thank you for letting me know, Mr Hunt. I'll put an advertisement in the wndow."

"No need. His replacement's joining us soon. Coming from outside London, so 'e or she'll need somewhere to stay."

"Point taken. I'll keep it for them. By the way, Mr Hunt, do you still need the flat below it?"

"Come again?"

"The flat below Mr Miller's. It's been empty for years, since long before I came here."

"Yeah, I know, I pay the rent on that one. Not sure I remember why now. Who was the last occupant? I've never lived there."

"I've no idea offhand, Mr Hunt, but I'll get the old tenancy ledgers out and check for you. I have a complete set in the office, going back to the 1980s. That flat's been locked ever since I came here. You have the key."

"Have I?" Gene fished a bunch of keys from his pocket. "Any idea which one?"

"No idea, just looking at them, but wait a moment." Mr Soo disappeared into his living quarters and returned with a key and a stack of ledgers. "This is the key to that flat from my set. Compare it with yours, while I look at the books."

Gene checked his keys, one by one, until he found the twin to Mr Soo's. "This is it, next to the key to my desk." He handed the spare back. "Better keep that one. You've never been in there, then?"

"Oh, no. Mr Omar, my predecessor, told me that you were very emphatic that nobody but yourself was to go in, just as Mr Ramsami told him. Goodness knows what it must be like in there. Probably full of dust and spiders." He was turning over the pages of a ledger as he spoke.

Gene frowned. "Now, why should I have said that? Have I ever been in there?"

"No idea, Mr Hunt, but if you don't need it any more, you could save yourself a lot of money on the rent."

"An' you could get yourself another tenant. Any joy on finding the last occupant?"

"Not yet. This is the ledger for 1986, and you were paying the rent then. 1985 - still you, 1984 - ah!"

"Found something?"

"Yes, here. In 1984 the flat was occupied by one Alex Drake. You started paying the rent in November of that year."

"Alex Drake? Don't remember the name. He must 'ave been on my team at the time."

"_She._"

"Eh?"

"Look here." Mr Soo placed the ledger in front of Gene. "This signature. _Alexandra_ Drake."

"Oh." A spark at the back of Gene's brain told him that he should recall the name, but it died for lack of fuel. He pushed his plate away. "Thanks for the chow mein, though I'd swear in court that you put old rubber tyres in it to spin out the meat. I'll go up an' take a look at that flat this evening. I'll let you know if I don't want it, an' then you can get it cleared out."

"Thanks, Mr Hunt. No worries, take your time."

-oO0Oo-

He unlocked the flat door, and it swung open with an eerie creak which advertised how long it had been, since anyone had oiled the hinges. On an impulse, he reached out for the light switch, and was surprised and gratified to find it straight away. As though he had known where it would be.

He closed the door and advanced cautiously into the flat. If it had not been for the thick layer of dust over everything, the tenant might only just have walked out a moment ago. The coffee table in the living room was loaded with empty bottles - God, this Drake bird must have been a heavy drinker - and the sofa cushions were disarranged, as though the last person to sit there had not straightened them and plumped them up before leaving. There was a sizeable television, with a Betamax video machine below it. How long had it been since he had seen one of those? The place was like the Sleeping Beauty's palace - although Gene grinned wryly at the thought of being the Prince Charming come to awaken it - or maybe an early 1980s time capsule, complete with blench-making décor.

Gene wandered around, switching on lamps, seeking clues about the personality of the woman who had lived here. One of his team had taught him all about that, he didn't remember whom. All that psychological profiling bollocks. It had been new back then, but it was all the thing now, so DI Shaun Astin was fond of telling him. He walked into the kitchen. Everything was clean and tidy, and all the crockery was washed and in the drainer. He didn't look in the larder or the fridge, but as he couldn't smell any rotting food, they might have been cleared before the flat was locked.

He moved on to the bedroom, raising an appreciative eyebrow at the double studio bed, surrounded by mirrors, with red silk sheets and matching red pillowcases and duvet. He moved a pillow, and found silky black pyjamas beneath. A black silk dressing gown hung on the back of the door. He opened the wardrobe, and found it full of tops and blouses in glowing colours, with several pairs of jeans and leggings and a number of pairs of high-heeled boots and shoes. At one end of the rail hung a short white fur coat, and beside it a red dress so short that he'd have been able to see what the wearer had for breakfast. Very distantly, something began to tug at his memory. To his confusion, at the other end of the rail hung a few old-fashioned mens' shirts, some of which were his size. Had he ever lived here? A subtle perfume pervaded his nostrils. He recognised it.

Closing the wardrobe, he moved on to the dressing table, which yielded an array of plastic jewellery, mostly earrings, a considerable amount of makeup, and a bottle of perfume. He unscrewed the cap and inhaled it deeply. He felt a right poof, but someone, probably that psychological profiler long ago, had told him that smell was one of the brain's strongest triggers of memory. It was the same as the perfume he had detected in the wardrobe. He knew that there had been a time when that scent had ruled his heart and his life. Alex Drake must have worn it. But what had she been to him?

He replaced the perfume bottle and returned to the living room. He spotted a notepad propped up on a shelf, and he picked it up and blew the dust from it. Someone had written on the top page:

_ICU_

_Weather Vane_

_Rural_

_Dead Copper?_

_Gene_

_6620_

_Gene/Sam_

_Shaz_

_Stars_

Was that about him, and why? What was all this about a dead copper, and stars? Who were Sam and Shaz? The only thing to which he could connect, was the number 6620. The person who had written this, presumably Alex Drake, had known about him and about the old epaulette number on his filing cabinet.

Notepad in hand, he perched cautiously on the striped sofa. Why had this place meant so much to him that he had been paying the rent for years to keep it sealed up, like some sort of shrine? Why could he not remember?

Suddenly, the television switched itself on. He had not touched the remote, which lay on top of the video recorder, and he could see that the TV was not plugged in. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, but he could not have moved to save his life.

The picture showed the interior of a pub, full of people, none of whom he recognised, drinking, relaxing, chatting. A glimpse of Nelson behind the bar confirmed that this must be the Railway Arms. He guessed that the occupants must all be coppers whom he had sent there when their time in his kingdom was done.

The tape on Nelson's sound system ended, and he changed it. After a few bars, a slim, extremely beautiful woman jumped to her feet with a strangled sob.

"No, Nelson, please, not that! I can't bear to hear it, please - "

"Sorry, Alex."

_So,_ Gene thought, _this must be the mysterious Alex Drake. Was she once on my team, then? _It was hard to imagine that he could have forgotten a cracker like her working for him._ Grade A Plus bodywork and chassis. _If he could forget her, what else had he forgotten?

Nelson changed the tape, and the woman sat down, hunched over her drink, a picture of misery. The other people at her table glanced at her sympathetically, and a young man with close-cropped hair, wearing a leather jacket, touched her arm. She gave him a grateful look.

"He and I danced to that song in my flat, the last night I was there." She was close to tears. "I'd never been so happy. But then - " She buried her face in her hands, and a young man with gold highlights in his hair pushed a box of Kleenex across the table to her, looking awkward. Just at that moment, the pub door opened and DS Miller walked in. He strode confidently over to the bar, and Alex jumped up and ran to the door, but it blew shut before she could reach it, and she cried out in despair.

_That was what I heard last night, when Miller opened the door,_ Gene thought. _Alex Drake. The woman who lived here. But why is she so upset?_

A younger girl with shoulder length dark hair went over to Alex and gently helped her back to her seat, and the man in the leather jacket changed seats with someone else so that the two women could sit together. DS Miller got his drink and sat at a table with two other people who Gene recognised, DC Penfold and DS Hammon, both of whom had gone to the Railway Arms the previous year. Miller had worked with them for a long time, and soon the three of them were delightedly renewing old acquaintances, swapping reminiscences, and catching up on news. It was all just as a pub should be.

By and by, when Hammon went to the bar for another round, Alex slipped into his seat beside Miller.

"Hello. Have you come here from Fenchurch East?"

"That's right." Miller drained his glass.

"I worked there too, long ago." She hesitated. "How is the Guv - DCI Hunt?"

"Oh, he's fine. Same old Guv, terrorising scum and coppers alike, driving like a maniac, drinking enough for six, free with his fists, the best Guv there ever was or will be. Probably hasn't changed all that much since you knew him."

"No." Her eyes glowed. "Tell me, does he ever talk about anyone who used to be there?"

"No, not much. Very much a man for the moment, our Guv. Keeps himself to himself, doesn't get close to anyone or talk to anyone, except about work."

"Didn't - didn't he ever mention Alex?"

Miller thought for a moment, and shook his head. "No, I don't ever remember him saying that name. Why?"

There was a desperate longing in her eyes. "Or - Bolly? Bols?" She was close to tears again. "He used to call me that."

"No, I'm afraid not. But if you want to hear about him, I can tell you some great stories about the adventures he and I had together."

"Thank you." She forced a smile, although tears were running down her face. "I'd like to hear them some time, please. But not now."

She stumbled away, and barely made it back to her table before she broke down again. Miller, surprised, glanced at Penfold, who said quietly, "She asks the same thing to everyone who comes in here. It's like an initiation ritual. I think she's a bit mad."

"You shut up!" The man with highlights turned around and shook his fist at them. "You'll never know what she's had to suffer."

"Sorry, Chris." Penfold shrugged his apology and turned back to his friends. The younger girl was trying to comfort the weeping Alex.

"Please don't cry, Ma'am, please don't. He'll come some day, and then he'll remember everything, you'll see." But Gene recognised that she must have said the same words in the same situation many times before, and they held little conviction.

"No, Shaz, no," Alex moaned. "I've waited and waited, but he'll never come now. He's forgotten me, he's forgotten all of us. I mean nothing to him. He has no reason to come any more. He'll just go on for ever, helping coppers and sending them here, he'll never come himself, never. I'll never see him again." She looked up, wild-eyed. "If he saw me, maybe he'd remember. I must go to him." Before Shaz could stop her, she had jumped from her seat and ran towards the door, but a big man with a moustache and a ridiculous curly perm blocked her way and caught her in his arms.

"No, Alex! You know you can't! Nobody can leave here."

She sagged against him, sobbing, and he wrapped his arms around her, trying to offer comfort where there was none to give. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he relaxed his gentle grip. In a flash, she pulled free, hurling herself at the door, beating at it with her fists until they bled.

"_GET ME OUT OF HERE!_"

She slid down the door and collapsed in a heap at its foot. Most of the pub's occupants looked embarassed or simply ignored what had happened, but a small group, who obviously knew her, clustered around her with murmurs of sympathy. Again, Gene guessed that all this had happened many, many times before. A short, stout, middle-aged woman pushed her way through the group, knelt beside Alex, and gathered the weeping woman to her capacious bosom, rocking her like a mother with a child.

"There, there, Alex love. Sssh, sssh…" She turned her head and bawled, "NELSON! First Aid box! We'll want a bowl of water too."

"Coming up, Phyllis." He reached under the bar, produced the box, ran a bowl of water from the bar tap, and brought them over to the group.

A sweet-faced young woman took the box and knelt beside Alex. "When I took my basic First Aid training, I never thought I'd need it here, of all places. It's lucky this First Aid box never runs out."

Nelson shook his head. "Never known anything like this in all my time as a barkeep. Never needed the First Aid box at all, until she arrived. It shouldn't be possible for anyone here to be hurt, or to feel sadness or pain."

"That's because she shouldn't be here," the man in the leather jacket said sadly. "She was sent before her time. She can't let go of the life she was forced to leave. That's why this place is a prison to her."

The younger woman took Alex's bleeding hand. "Is it worthwhile doing this? She'll only tear the bandages off again. She always does."

"We'll put her under first." Phyllis reached into the box and produced a bottle of sleeping pills. "Nelson, glass of water."

"I'll get it." The man in the leather jacket poured out a glassful of water from the jug on the counter, and brought it back to Phyllis.

"Ta, Boss." She knocked two tablets from the bottle into her hand. "Now, Alex, take these." Alex whimpered a token resistance, but there was no fight left in her, and she swallowed them. They all watched as her eyelids drooped.

"What I can't get," Chris ventured, "is why she can't move on like the rest of us have? All of us left people we loved behind when we died, but we know we'll see them again, and we can wait. Why can't she?"

Shaz cuffed him lightly. "She know she has to wait for her daughter, and she's accepted that. But Sam's right, she was sent here before her time. The rest of us had finished with the Guv's world when we came here, but she hadn't. She loves him, and he rejected her. That's what she can't bear. We only have to wait until our loved ones die, but who knows when the Guv's work will be finished? She may go on waiting for ever."

"_Bastard_", Phyllis snarled, as she and the younger woman set to work to bathe Alex's tear-stained face and bleeding hands, anoint the raw skin with Savlon and antiseptic, and bandage her.

"But think of what he does," the younger woman said gently. "Each and every person here had issues with their deaths. He gave us all the lives we should have had and made us become the coppers we should be, so that we could come here. Is that so little?"

Phyllis wrapped a bandage around Alex's hand. "Yeah, he charges about in his latest new car, chasing scum, having adventures, having _fun_. Goes on about being where he's needed. He's needed _here_."

"Guv'll have had 'is reasons for doing what he did." Chris could not look Shaz in the eye as he said it.

"He is, and always will be, the Guv," the big man added loyally. "But I wish..." His voice tailed off as he looked down at the once indomitable woman who lay in a defeated heap at his feet.

The younger woman stood and turned to Nelson. "We'll need a blanket and a pillow."

Nelson nodded. "Right away, Annie. I've got them under the bar."

Chris looked bewildered. "This is the first pub I've ever heard of, where you can get a pillow and blanket."

"Yeah, what else 'ave you got under there?" the big man added.

Nelson returned with the blanket and pillow under his arm. "This is the Railway Arms, mon brave. Under this bar is everything you could want."

The big man glanced pityingly at Alex. "Except that she can never have what she wants, and it's destroying her."

"That's enough." Phyllis took charge again. "Time you made yourself useful, Ray. Carry her into the saloon bar."

"Sure." The big man gently picked Alex up and carried her through to the next room, with Phyllis preceding him like a town crier, and Nelson, Shaz and Annie following. A long settle, currently occupied by several drinkers, ran along one side of the saloon bar.

"_OFF!_" Phyllis bawled at them in the dulcet tones of a welder. "This is requisitioned by the police!"

"But we _are_ the police," one puzzled drinker replied.

Phyllis faced him, hands on hips, with her most ferocious glare. "So am I. Any problems?"

"Er, no." The drinkers, grumbling amongst themselves, vacated the settle, Ray laid Alex down upon it, and Nelson placed the pillow under her head and swathed her in the blanket.

"Thanks, boys. We'll stay with her."

"Anything I can get you ladies while you wait?"

"Ta, Nelson, I'll have a port and lemon. Annie? Shaz?"

"Campari, please."

"White wine."

"Coming up."

Nelson vanished, returned a few moments later with the drinks, and left the ladies to sit at a table beside the sleeping Alex.

"I still say the Guv's a selfish bastard," Phyllis flailed an arm in Alex's direction. "As pretty a thing as I ever saw, and he's broken her. Every single time a new person comes in here, the same thing happens. She asks them if he remembers her, they say he doesn't, and she tears herself to bits trying to get out."

"It's like watching a bird break its wings," Annie whispered, full of pity.

"She wasn't always like this," Shaz said softly. "She used to be so strong. And the Guv loved her, I know he did. The way he used to look at her..."

"Didn't stop him forgetting her," Phyllis said tartly.

"No," Shaz admitted. "I don't know how he could. Me, Chris, Ray, but not her. Maybe he had to, because it hurt him too much to remember."

"What about hurting _her_?"

"He must have thought that he was doing the right thing in sending her here," Shaz said stoutly. "He wouldn't knowingly have hurt her. I'm sure of that."

"I'd hurt him, if I got anywhere near him," Phyllis said darkly.

"She was the most brilliant copper I've ever known," Shaz said sadly. "She and the Guv used to argue all the time. He'd never have admitted it, but he learned so much from her. They brought out the best and the worst in each other. Chris says he once saw her punch the Guv so hard, she nearly knocked him off his feet. He called her Joe Bugner in a frock."

"Good girl." Phyllis took a swig of her port and lemon. "If he dares show his face around here, I'll punch him for her."

"For God's sake don't say that where Ray and Chris can hear you." Annie tried to hide her amusement. "They'll open a book on whether you'd dare to do it or not."

"Let them." Phyllis banged her glass down on the table. "He'd better not come anywhere near me."

"I hope he does," Shaz said very seriously. "I don't know how much more of this she can take."

The sound of Phyllis's glass had disturbed Alex, and she stirred. "_Gene?_"

Shaz sat beside her and stroked her hair. "No, Ma'am, he isn't here yet. But he'll come here soon. You'll see."

The TV picture winked out suddenly. Gene had been watching in agony. He knew all these people. Sam, Annie, Ray, Chris, Shaz, Phyllis, _Alex_, above all, Alex. How could he ever have forgotten? He clutched his head while reawakened memories flooded through him, too fast for him to process, a myriad of images overwhelming him until he thought that he would collapse with the pain of it.

Alex. Bolly. His Alex. The woman he had loved. Still loved, now he remembered her again. He had never told her, of course. Gene Hunt did not do love. But he had loved her, even when she drove him out of his mind, as she had regularly done twenty-four hours a day. Even when her recklessness had nearly led to the closure of his station. Even when he had feared that she was a traitor. That was why he had preserved this place, just as she had left it, because he could not bear to let anyone else live where she had lived, throwing away her belongings like rubbish, letting her be forgotten. Yet he had kept it as her memorial and then forgotten her.

He had loved her as much for her wit, her courage and daring, her brilliant mind, as for her beauty. Now she was a broken, bleeding shell of her former self. He knew that they all blamed him, though only Phyllis would say it. That woman always did call a digging implement a bloody spade.

Why could he not remember how and why Alex had gone from his life? Shaz had said that he had sent Alex to the Railway Arms, because it would have hurt him too much to remember. Remember what? Why had he sent her away when she needed him? However much it hurt, he would have to try to remember now, for Alex's sake.

He had shot her... shot her. He remembered that. But it was not why they had parted. He knew that she had continued working with him afterwards. It was after the shooting that he had slapped her face to bring her out of a coma, because he had needed her to clear his name. But try as he would, he could not recall how their time together had ended.

The smell of her perfume had been the first thing to awaken his memory. The sight of Alex's lonely misery in the Railway Arms had been the second. She had begged Nelson not to play a song, because she and Gene had danced to it in her flat, the last time she was there.

Gene stood and walked over to the sound system, which stood on a shelf opposite the sofa. There was a tape in the cassette player. If he had left everything else undisturbed since her departure, this could be the music that she had played then. Smell and sight had both helped to restore his memory. It was time to try sound. He pressed the Play switch.

The air was filled with soft music. Gradually he recognised the song, one which he had not heard for many years.

_So true funny how it seems  
Always in time, but never in line for dreams_

He closed his eyes and held out one arm to encircle an imaginary woman and bring her close to him, holding out his other hand to take hers, swaying gently to the music in time with the rhythm of her body.

_Head over heels when toe to toe  
This is the sound of my soul,_

_This is the sound_

He could almost feel the weight of her head, resting upon his shoulder. _  
_

_I bought a ticket to the world,  
But now I've come back again  
Why do I find it hard to write the next line  
Oh I want the truth to be said  
_

He remembered, with agonising sweetness, how his lips had brushed her brow. In those moments, she had trusted him, opened up to him, let him cherish her as never before or since._  
_

_Huh huh huh hu-uh huh  
I know this much is true  
Huh huh huh hu-uh huh  
I know this much is true_

She had raised her head and looked into his eyes. Hers had been smoky with desire. They had moved closer, their lips had nearly met...

...and then a knock at the door had broken the spell, and a dark enemy had driven them apart, sowing the doubt and suspicion that had sent her from this place, never to return.

The song ran on unheeded until the tape ended with a sharp click. Gene opened his eyes, trembling. What had happened after that? They must have met again. She could not have gone to the Railway Arms unless he had taken her there. But what had followed that had made him banish her there before her time?

He sat on the sofa, deep in thought. He didn't have to be a psychologist to know that the more painful the memory, the deeper it would be hidden within him. Something he had needed to forget so much, that he had even made himself forget _her_. But now he had started on this quest, he had to follow it to its conclusion, no matter what the cost to himself. Alex had already paid heavily enough.

Self-induced amnesia, she had called it once, when a witness to a brutal murder had blanked out everything. Gene had thought that the man was lying when he denied all knowledge of the incident. He had threatened to paint him all over the interview room, but Alex had taken charge and, slowly and carefully, she had drawn a statement from the terrified witness, using association techniques.

Association. What could he associate with her, to make him remember what had happened after she had left this flat? He concentrated again. Words? Music? Objects? He stood and walked around the flat, looking at each item it contained. But his gut instinct told him that whatever the answer was, he would not find it here. Something had happened after she had left the flat for the last time.

He turned out all the lights and left the flat, closing the door softly behind him and locking it. Something told him that he would not return here either. They must both have been in CID, at some time after she had abandoned the refuge of her flat. Perhaps he would find the answer there.

**TBC**


	2. Remembered

**Disclaimer: Alas, I still don't own Ashes to Ashes. **

**Thank you so much to everyone who read Chapter 1, and especially those who took the time and trouble to review. I do appreciate it so much.**

**Sorry about the gap in transmission - the Luigi's Meet-up on 3 July (with a location tour during the day) left me with absolutely no time to post this chapter that weekend, and I was away all last week. **

**"Can't help lovin' that man" was written by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II for the immortal **_**Show Boat**_**. See Helen Morgan, the original interpreter, sing it on YouTube, and weep.**

**As always, please review, and I promise to reply!**

_All roads point at last to an ultimate inn, where we shall meet... and when we drink again it shall be from the great flagons in the tavern at the end of the world_.

- G.K. Chesterton, _Charles Dickens_

Tony, the Skip, looked up from his newspaper in surprise. "Evening, Sir. It's late for you to be coming back."

"Yeah. I've forgotten something."

Gene marched down the darkened corridors of his kingdom to the main office, and paused in the doorway, remembering how it had used to be. Ray had sat there, and Chris there, opposite him, and Shaz over there, clattering away at her typewriter. And this desk had been Bolly's. The one with 6-6-20 carved into its surface. The same number as the epaulette number in his office.

He ran his finger over the carving. An image swam into his mind, of her slender hand stretched out to his, holding the epaulette number, and of his hand taking it. That was why he had kept it. It had been her last gift to him. But what was its significance?

He walked into his office, turned the lamp on, picked up the epaulette number from the filing cabinet, and held it tightly in his hand, willing it to be the key that would open the door to his buried memories. Smell, sight and hearing had all played their part. Now it was time for touch. He closed his eyes and focused his senses on the feel of the metal against his skin.

_PC Gene Hunt. 6620. Coronation Day. A farmhouse. A weathervane. He heard a noise. Thought they were kids. He kicked the door open. The sound of the shotgun firing was deafening. The pain as his forehead shattered... then blackness. A shallow grave._

Gene sank to his knees with a groan, cluching the small scrap of metal as though it were his lifeline.

_The farmhouse again. The scarecrow, with the epaulette number 6620 pinned to its shoulder. Alex, digging in front of it. The spade, striking something. The skull, uncovered by her hands, with the gaping hole in its temple. The warrant card found among the folds of the rotting coat. His warrant card._

So this was why he had sent her away. She had found out the unendurable truth he had forgotten, and could only forget again after she had gone. Keats had tricked her into doing it, by making her think that it was Sam Tyler buried at the farmhouse. He remembered Keats too, now.

_A frosty night. They stood outside the Railway Arms. She held a child's scarf in her hands, her face crumpling with tears._

_"My baby..."_

_He could not meet her eyes, and shifted uneasily on his feet. "I know, I know, I know. Way of the world, Alex. She'll be fine."_

_She nodded, slightly reassured. "All right," she whispered. There was a short silence as they looked at each other, as she understood what he was about to do to her. _

"_Lis - listen to me." She smiled. "I can stay here. With you." She reached out, lightly touching his chest, seizing his lapels as she grew increasingly desperate. Tears were pouring down her face. "You can't do this - you can't do this on your own. You need me, Gene. I can't - I can't go in there!"_

_In spite of himself, he smiled slightly. "Yes, you can. They've got a saloon bar." The faint ray of hope in her eyes died. "Can't 'ave you putting me off my stride, can I? I mean, I'll end up wonderin' if I'm not completely right all the time. Can't 'ave that." He looked down. "Weren't bad, though, were we?"_

_His use of the past tense destroyed her. She gazed at him for a moment, then looked down, reaching into her pocket. She produced the epaulette badge, number 6620, and held it out to him._

_"Here," she whispered. If she had said any more, she would have broken down completely. He looked down at it, took it, and held it between his hands, gazing at it. Their eyes met again. _

_"See you around, Bolly Kecks." _

_She stepped forward, laid her hand upon his cheek, and kissed him for the first and last time. The touch of her hand and her lips was all that he could ever have imagined. But he did not let himself weaken. _

_She drew back, but did not withdraw her hand. "Goodbye, Guv," she said softly._

_"Go."_

_That single, brutal syllable hung in the air between them. She stepped back, still looking at him as her face crumpled again with unshed tears, still hoping against hope for a reprieve, then turned and walked away without looking back. She had nothing to look back for. Her only reason for remaining there had rejected her. She paused at the door, then forced herself to reach out to the handle, push it open, and step inside. He watched her go..._

...and she had vanished from his sight for ever, while Keats's mocking laughter rang in his ears.

He brought his fists to his mouth, trying to cram the tide of emotion back inside himself. The metal badge tasted bitter against his tongue. _Taste._ The last of the five senses. She had given him the epaulette number in one final, forlorn hope that, if he forgot, it would make him remember. And so, eventually, it had.

He stayed there for a long time, on his knees, in the lamplight, dealing for a second time with the rediscovery of who and what he was, and what his world was. A world inside the mind of a dead copper, cut down at eighteen years of age, who had become the guardian and guide of his dead colleagues. His mind reeled with it.

It wasn't so bad as the first time he had remembered. Now, there was no Keats to shatter his world to smithereens and disgrace him in front of his team. He was facing this alone. Looking back on it, he realised that in some respects he hadn't forgotten so much as he had before. He had always known that he had to send his charges on to the Railway Arms when their time came, and he had never held onto them for too long, as he had with Ray and Chris and Shaz. He had never again formed such close bonds with any of them. They had been valued colleagues, but never friends. He had found strength in his loneliness. Perhaps that was why Keats had never again been able to gain a foothold in his world. Gene might have forgotten the pencil-neck himself, but he had retained a memory of what the bastard, and all his kind, represented, and had been able to guard against them.

But to do it, he had had to obliterate from his memory, all the people who had ever been dear to him. He remembered now, how in the months after Alex and the others had gone, the loneliness had all but destroyed him. At first he had dealt with it in the usual way, by whipping his new team into shape with the ruthlessness of a Spartan commander, beating up any suspect unlucky enough to cross his path within an inch of their lives, and getting pissed as a rat nightly. But when even that could not dull the pain of loss, he had consciously made himself forget all of it. Who he truly was, what his world was and how it had come about, and all those who had shared it with him in the past. The loss of his memories had enabled him to survive and continue, but he knew now, what the cost had been to himself and to Alex.

He had told himself that she would be all right, once she went inside the Railway Arms, but he knew that his true reason for sending her away, had been to forget. She had already lost her child, and he had banished her, selfishly, cruelly, callously, from everything else that had given her existence any meaning - her work and himself. Because he could not bear to remember, he had broken the unbreakable bond between them, and he had broken her. She had been weeping when he exiled her from his side, and she had wept and waited ever since, while he had forgotten her and gone on to new recruits and new adventures. And her grief had reduced the paradise of the Railway Arms to a fearful, embattled outpost. All those years…

"Forgive me, Alex," he said, very low. "I am so sorry, Bols, I am so sorry..."

He knew that he still had a choice. He could allow himself to forget again, continue as he was, and go on to the Railway Arms at some time in the future, when and if he chose. There would always be new recruits to train, souls to save and scum to catch. But now he knew of Alex's despair, if he ignored it he would be living a lie. And, contrary to what Keats had said, Gene Hunt did not lie.

It might be too late for her to forgive him. The scenes he had witnessed on her television could only have happened recently, as they had included Miller's arrival at the Railway Arms just over twenty-four hours ago. She had still loved him then, but Gene knew that when she saw him again, she might hate him for abandoning her. But whatever happened, his place was with her now.

Force of habit gave him pause. If he left, who would look after his team? That was why he had remained at Fenchurch East for so long: he knew that his work there would never end. Well, that know-all twonk DI Astin would just have to step up to the mark. Maybe the next new recruit through the door would be a DCI in search of a team. Gene believed very firmly that nothing in his kingdom happened by chance. He had been sent to Alex's flat that evening, to be reminded of her. That meant that CID was no longer the right place for him to be. He unhooked the key to his desk from his keyring, left it in the lock, pocketed the epaulette number and took the bottle of single malt from his desk. Was there anything else that he should take with him? Yes - his framed firearm training certificate. He was buggered if he would leave Astin, or whoever else inherited his place, to claim that as theirs. He carefully unhooked the frame from the wall, slid it into the large inner pocket of his coat, took one final look around his office, turned off the lamp, and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

"Good Heavens, Sir, I didn't realise you were still here." He had been so lost in his thoughts that Tony's voice, as he passed the desk, made him jump. "I thought you must have left long ago, while I was away making a cuppa. Did you find it?"

"Eh?"

"You said you'd forgotten something, Sir. Did you find it?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

Tony looked concerned. "Sir, look at your hand."

Gene looked at his left hand. He had been gripping the epaulette number so tightly that he had driven its prongs into the flesh of his fingers, and they had drawn blood.

"I can't feel it." He drew a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wrapped it around the injured digits. Sam had told him long ago, that Nelson had told him: _When you can feel, then you're alive. When you don't feel, you're not. _"I'll survive."

"Good." Tony smiled. "See you tomorrow, then, Sir."

"Goodbye, Tony." Gene swept out of his kingdom for the last time, without a backward glance.

Gene got into the Merc and dropped the bottle into the glove box. The Quattro was another thing he'd forgotten. It was still the best car he'd ever owned. The Merc had been nothing but trouble from day one. He could not imagine now, what could have possessed him to buy a diesel car. He was convinced that Keats must have left that brochure on his desk in a final act of revenge. The temptation to crash it and claim the insurance had been overwhelming but he had nobly resisted it. Now, though, he would have his revenge on this bloody car for all the times it had failed to start or stalled in mid-chase.

He fired up the Merc, screeched away from Fenchurch East for the last time, and lit out east. Docklands had been regenerated long ago, but he knew of a slipway out beyond Silvertown which would suit his purpose. He tore past Tower Bridge, wistfully recalling how he, Ray and Chris had commandeered the _Prince Charlie _to rescue Bolly and Shaz, when they took Layton down. That had been his first case with Bolly. Now all his cases were done for ever.

Cruising along by Blackwall Reach, he spotted a man forcing open the lock of the gate to a gangway leading onto a moored boat, and stealing into the cabin. The name on the hull struck a chord. _Princess Di_. He pulled the car over and drew his gun. Perhaps, after all, there would be time for one last case before the Lion hung up his claws. But before he could get out of the car, a young plod came hurtling from the shadows and raced past him down the gangway.

_Oh, no, not like that, you twat. He may be armed. You're not Gary Cooper in High Noon. He'll hear you coming..._

He leapt from the car and pursued the boy down the gangway, but the lad had already vanished into the cabin. A youthful voice rang out: "Stop right there!"

The gunshot echoed in the confined space of the cabin, and Gene heard a body drop to the ground. Enraged beyond words, he charged down the gangway, hurled himself into the cabin, and fired with murder and vengeance in his heart. The startled gunman went down with a bullet between the eyes.

Gene laid his gun aside and knelt beside the young bobby, who lay stretched out, clutching his chest, blood seeping between his fingers. _Shit, I haven't got a radio. _He felt in the boy's pocket and pulled a radio out. _Bingo._

"Officer down. Get an ambulance. Moored boat, the _Princess Di_, Blackwall Reach, north bank."

"But who - " a woman's voice crackled over the radio.

"Ambulance, NOW, you silly cow! Or a man will die!"

Something unintelligible crackled back at him before the batteries died with a thirsty whimper. _Trust someone to give the rookie the dodgy radio_. He didn't think that his summons would make much difference. The ambulance would not arrive in time. But at least he had tried. He cradled the boy in his arms. Skinny lad. Needed fattening up.

"Easy, lad. You've done your job. He's dead, an' the ambulance is on its way. Stay with me. Won't be long." He gently smoothed back the dark curly hair from the boy's clammy forehead.

"Who... you?" The kid's voice was weak, fighting to be heard through mortal pain.

"I'm a copper too. What's your name?"

"PC... John... Burroughs..."

"Proud to know you."

"Don't tell her..."

"What's that, lad?"

"Don't tell her. Don't tell my mum."

"Don't tell 'er what?"

"Don't tell her that I was... scared..."

"You're not scared, John. You're a brave man."

The lad looked up into his eyes, and subsided with a final groan. Gene felt for a pulse, found none, tenderly laid him down on the dirty floor, and bowed his head, fighting back tears. A young copper, spick and span and very proud, ready to set the world to rights, cut down by one senseless bullet. Just as another young copper had been, once...

_What a waste._ But maybe, on this night of all nights, Gene could ensure that it would not be waste after all.

"You've got the heart of a lion, John," he said softly. "You'll become the copper you always imagined yourself to be. You'll be the new Lion of Fenchurch East."

He placed his hands on the boy's temples, concentrating intently, and felt a great weight slip from his shoulders, as though his mantle of power were falling away from him.

He breathed deeply. It was done. He should go quickly, before help arrived. At least he had been able to alert John's station. This boy's body would be found, and he would be given the decent burial that had been denied to that other boy. Ballistics would prove that he had been shot by the gun still clutched in the dead intruder's hand. The only mysteries would be, that the intruder had been shot by a bullet from a gun of the same make and calibre as those issued to armed police in the Met, and that an unknown person, presumably the one who had killed the intruder, had used John's radio to call his station about the shooting, and then disappeared.

Gene picked up his gun, holstered it, rose, and looked cautiously out of the cabin onto the gangway. All was still and quiet. He stole up the gangway, crossed the road, got into the Merc, and drove away. At the first opportunity, he turned into a side street, and stopped there, in the shadows, just as an ambulance and a patrol car tore along the riverside, heading for the _Princess Di. _Their noise and light was the perfect cover for Gene to pull out and head off, unnoticed, down the road. They never saw him go.

Out at Gallions Reach, he found what he had been looking for, an old slipway, secured only by a padlock and chain, loosely slung between two low metal gateposts. It was gone 3am by now, and everything was still and quiet. He drove the car at the chain, and one of the gateposts was pulled from the ground by the impact. He got out, heaved the gatepost and chain out of the way, and, with the brake off and his hand on the steering wheel, he ran the Merc down the slope and into the river. It sank into the dark water like a stone. Gene stood watching at the foot of the slipway for a couple of minutes, but it did not resurface.

_This worked for Sam, so it'll work for me. _If the Merc was ever found, it would be with the driver's door open and a half-empty bottle of single malt in the glove box. Perhaps a legend would arise, that the Gene Genie might have escaped drowning and would return some day.

He walked back towards the city, avoiding the river as much as he could lest the vehicles answering his call to the _Lady Di_ should sight him. He saved time by keeping to the hinterland, cutting off the great loop of the Isle of Dogs. Even so, dawn was about to break by the time he crossed London Bridge and headed south to the Railway Arms.

It was long past closing time for any normal pub, but the windows glowed their customary welcome. Gene knew that it would never be shut against him. Even now, he hesitated a little in front of the door, but not for long. He knew that he was done with this world. His place was with _her_. Like Alex, long before, he did not look back as he reached out to the handle, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

It was just as he remembered from the old days, but... larger. Far larger. The interior of the pub seemed to stretch on to infinity, every chair and settle, every inch of the bar, occupied by the souls for whom he had cared, and whom he had sent to their rest in this place. All conversation stopped as he entered. There was a few seconds' deep silence, then a familiar figure in a black leather jacket rose to his feet, clapping. They all rose, rank upon rank of them, applauding and cheering. It was the greatest "copper's ovation" ever, and it seemed as though it would never end. Gene stood there and let it all wash over him, unaccustomed tears prickling behind his eyes. It was the proudest moment of his afterlife. Then they all surged forward, Sam, Ray, Annie, Chris, Shaz, Penfold, Miller, Hammon, all of them, shaking his hand, clapping him on the shoulder, hugging him. Everyone was there, except the person for whom he had come here.

"Guv!" Sam wrung his hand, again and again. "Good to see you! It's been too long."

"I know that, Sammy-boy." He hugged him. "Where - "

"Never mind, Guv. You're here now." To his great embarrassment, Annie kissed him.

"Yeah, any particular reason you've come now, Guv?" Chris said confusedly, and yelped as Shaz nudged him in the ribs.

"I knew you wouldn't leave us." She stood on tiptoe and kissed Gene's other cheek.

"What'll you 'ave, Guv?" Ray gripped his hand. "Nelson's got the best collection of single malts in the world, you've never seen anything like it, an' however much you drink 'ere, you never get pissed or get a hangover."

"What's happening outside, then, Guv?" Penfold called out, trying to struggle through the throng engulfing Gene.

Nelson forged his way through the crowd to grasp Gene's hand. "Welcome, Mr Hunt, mon brave! Good to see you! You know the house rules. You have whatever you want, and everything's on the house. I just put on a fresh barrel. What can I get you?"

Before Gene could reply, there was a commotion at the edge of the crowd, and Phyllis came charging through like a vengeful cottage loaf. She stopped in front of Gene, glaring up at him with a fury which had cowed lesser men during her days on the desk at GMP. He returned her glare, grim-faced. There was a silence, which was broken as she dealt him a stinging blow across the face.

"That's for her."

Everyone held their breath and waited for Gene to go nuclear. One or two fainter spirits looked as though they were about to hide behind the nearest available pieces of furniture. But Gene only nodded slightly, acknowledging the rightness of her rebuke.

"Where is she?" His voice fell into the pit of silence.

Phyllis tossed her head. "Saloon bar. Follow me."

The crowd parted like the Red Sea before them. As he passed them, Gene noticed Ray holding out his hand and Chris reaching into his pocket and giving him a fiver.

Phyllis paused with her hand on the door. "She's asleep. We've had to drug her."

Gene nodded his understanding. "Ta, Phyllis. I'll sit with 'er till she comes round."

She opened the door. Most of the lights had been turned out or dimmed, but a brave huddle of drinkers sat at the far end. At the sight of their Guv, they rose and cheered. Phyllis indignantly shushed them, fixed them with her best glare, and pointed to the door. They picked up their glasses and filed out without a murmur. She turned to Gene and pointed to the figure lying on the settle, covered by a blanket. Gene nodded again, reached for a chair, and pulled it over to the settle. He looked back, but Phyllis had gone and Shaz was standing there.

"It's good that you're here, Guv," she said softly. "She's been in a bad way ever since she came here, crying for you all the time, trying to escape whenever anyone new arrives, asking them all if you remember her - and you _didn't_."

The quiet accusation in her voice cut through him like a knife. "I know, I know," he said wearily, and she looked surprised. He remembered that she did not know what he had learned in Alex's flat. "Thanks for looking after 'er, Shaz. I'll owe you girls a drink later."

Shaz nodded and left, and he sat beside Alex. He would not try to awaken her. He knew how little peace she must have had, since he sent her from him. She had waited so long for him, that the least he could do, was to wait now for her. He had never imagined that he would spend his first hours in the Railway Arms sitting in near-darkness beside a sleeping woman, but he knew beyond any doubt that this was the right place to be.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, when he saw her stir. Instantly he reached out and gently took her bandaged hand in his.

"_Gene?_" she mumbled sleepily.

"Yes, Bols. S'me."

Her eyes opened sharply, and she gave a little whimper of joy, raising herself onto one elbow. "Gene! Oh, Gene, can it really be you? I've waited so long…"

"Who did you think it was, David Bowie?" His voice was gruff even by his standards as he strove to conceal his emotion.

Her eyes filled with tears. "No… no. It can't be true. I've dreamt of this so many times, and I've always woken up."

He squeezed her hand. "It's me, you daft tart! An' if you want to sleep on the job, join the fire brigade!"

She reached out to touch his face, still scarcely daring to believe. "Gene…"

The feel of her cool, delicate fingers on his cheek awakened a sharp memory, painful even now, of their parting all those years ago. He turned his face into her cupped hand, letting his lips brush her fingers.

"I've waited for you, and waited, and waited - bastard, bastard, _bastard_!" Her bandaged hands beat feebly at his chest, and she buried her face in his shoulder, weeping for the last time as all her joy and grief flooded out of her. His arms closed around her and held her tight. If he got what he deserved, she would send him away, but if she allowed him to stay with her, he would never let her go.

At last the tempest of her tears ceased and she rested quietly against him, her head upon his shoulder. His lips brushed her forehead with infinite tenderness.

"All the time I was with you, I was trying to get home to Molly." Her voice, small and accusing, came to him from the semi-darkness. "But even while I was trying to fight what I felt for you, because I was afraid that it might keep me from her, even then I used to think - if I couldn't get home, at least I'd have another life, in your world. With you. I knew that, whichever happened, I'd be leaving half of my heart behind. But I never imagined anything so awful as losing both Molly and you. You left me with nothing. _Nothing_."

"Shouldn't 'ave sent you 'ere," he muttered. "Got it wrong. I thought I was doin' the right thing. I'd never 'ad to deal with anyone - feeling anything for me before. Thought it'd be best for you. You'd done your bit in purgatory. It was time for you to move on."

"You rejected me. Just after I'd found out that I'd lost Molly. I didn't know that anything could hurt so much."

He shook his head unhappily. "Thought that you'd be safe an' happy 'ere. Now I know, all I did was send you away when you needed me most. I was needed, an' I wasn't there."

"You forgot me."

"Yeah." He did not deny it. "Not just you. Forgot everything. Sam, Annie, Ray, Chris, Shaz, Phyllis, even Keats. Even you. I'm sorry, Bols. So sorry."

"I knew it." Her voice was quiet, resigned, leached of bitterness. "As soon as you got yourself a new team, you forgot all about us. You never even talked about us. About me. I've asked everyone who's come here since. I was right. I mean nothing to you."

"Don't say that," he said roughly. "You all meant too much to me. Especially you. That's why I couldn't talk about you. Even think about you. Didn't you notice, I wouldn't talk about Sam or Annie when I got down south? Same reason. Remembering hurt, so I didn't. Made myself forget everything."

"You told Ray to get one in for you. You said you'd see me around." Her voice was flat and emotionless. "You broke your promise to us."

He shook his head again. "Didn't know I had. Wouldn't do that to you on purpose. Hoped you'd know that."

She shifted against him. "So, how come you're here now?"

"I went back to your flat tonight. First time I'd been there since - " He hesitated. "Since you'd left it. I'd kept it locked up ever since. Forgotten why. Landlord 'ad asked me if 'e could clear it. I found all your things an' started remembering little bits an' pieces, but I still didn't remember _you_. Then the TV set turned on by itself an' showed me what was 'appening 'ere. I remembered all of you then, couldn't imagine 'ow I'd ever forgotten. It hit me like your left 'ook. But I still couldn't remember why you'd gone. I went back to CID, an' I found the answer there."

She sat up and looked at him. "What was it? The answer?"

He reached into his pocket and brought out the epaulette number. The metal gleamed in a ray of light. "This." She gave a little cry and took it almost reverently in her hands. "I'd had it on my filing cabinet all the time. I'd forgotten why it was there or what it meant, but when I saw it tonight it made me remember everything." He looked at her. "That's why you gave it to me, wasn't it? So I'd remember?"

"Yes," she said softly. "It's brought you back to me at last."

She handed it back to him, and he pocketed it. "As soon as I'd remembered, I knew I 'ad to come 'ere right away. Where I'm needed. I'd stayed away too long. I drove the Merc out to Silvertown an' pushed it down a slipway, then came straight 'ere."

She looked shocked. "Do you mean that you abandoned your team?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I've left 'em, but I'll 'ave a successor. Time for someone else to inherit the Lion's den."

"You left everything and came here, for_ me_?"

He took her clasped hands between his. "For you."

She regarded him narrowly."Why?"

He felt cornered, but he knew that he owed her the truth. "Because - "

"Ye - es?"

He made an effort. "Because I bloody love you." She relaxed, and her face broke into the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. "Always 'ave an' always will, you daft, crazy tart. Couldn't tell you before. You'll know why."

"Because the Gene Genie doesn't do love?"

He looked down. "Can't be _seen_ to."

"Thank you," she whispered. "I love you too, Gene Hunt. So much, you miserable, grumpy bastard. While I've been waiting for you, there were times when I wanted to hate you. It would have made it so much easier for me, if I could. But I found that I couldn't. It's just like a song my grandmother used to sing to me when I was very little.

_He can come home as late as can be,_

_Home without him ain't no home to me,_

_Can't help loving that man of mine._"

Gene blinked, more moved than he would admit. "Thanks, Bols. Thanks for givin' me another chance. Didn't know if you'd be able to forgive me."

Her fingers touched his lips, as light as a butterfly. "You're here now. That's enough. I thought you'd never come."

The corner of his mouth dimpled. "You won't say that in a couple of hours."

"Why not?"

"This is the Railway Arms. You can 'ave whatever you want. That means they do rooms upstairs. I think we still 'ave unfinished business, Bolly."

"Yes." She stroked his face tenderly. "Yes, we do."

Slowly, they moved towards each other. Their lips brushed softly, then they were clinging together, passionately exploring one anothers' mouths with a hunger all the greater for their long separation. She entwined her fingers in his hair, pulling him ever closer.

There was a knock at the door, and they sprang apart.

"Mr Hunt, mon brave?"

"Bloody 'ell, Nelson, you're as bad as Keats!" Gene radiated embarrassment as he tried to straighten his ruffled hair. "Doesn't this place 'ave a Do Not Disturb sign?"

"Sorry, mon brave." Nelson winked. "I'll remember that for next time."

"Well, since you _'ave_ disturbed us, the lady an' I require a room, toot suite." He wrapped an arm around Alex, who leaned happily against his chest.

"Er, well, that's why I knocked." It was Nelson's turn to look embarrassed. "If you don't come into the bar now, the counter might collapse."

"Eh? Why?"

"Mr Hunt, mon brave, have you _any_ idea how many coppers you've sent here, and told them to get one in for you?" He stood back, and they could see through into the main bar. The counter was covered with full glasses in serried ranks as far as the eye could see.

Gene fairly goggled at the sight. "You mean - ?"

"That's all your orders, right back to when you sent me your first copper. Now you're here, everyone's got you the drinks you asked for."

"Oh. Er. But - " He glanced down at Alex, and she laughed joyously.

"Go on. You mustn't disappoint them."

"What about _us_ bein' disappointed?"

She kissed him. "We can wait. We have all the time in all of the worlds."

"That's true." Nelson beamed. "And now Mr Hunt's arrived, I'd bet my last barrel that things'll never be the same around here again."

-oO0Oo-

DCI Gene Hunt's funeral service was held a fortnight after the discovery of his car, submerged in the Thames near Silvertown. Despite an exhaustive search, no trace of him had been found, but as the Merc had been discovered with the driver's door open, the coroner had concluded that DCI Hunt must have managed to escape from the car after it sank and attempted to swim to the bank. He would have been disoriented by cold and shock, and as the accident had occurred at night, he would have been unable to see where the bank was. Given the strength of the currents in the area, and the direction of the tide on the night he disappeared, it was probable that he had been swept out towards the Thames estuary, in which case it was unlikely that the body would ever be recovered.

DI Shaun Astin, the member of his team who had worked with him for longest, was chosen to give the eulogy.

"A lot of people couldn't accept the way he worked. They called him old-fashioned, a Neanderthal, an anachronism. Some of that was true. Hard-driving, hard-drinking, hard-living, a hard man, he seemed like a throwback to an earlier age. He resented the rules and restrictions of the modern police force.

"When I joined his team, I'd come from a long way away, from a place where things were done very differently. I thought I'd never get used to the way we work here, or to him. But as time went on, I came to appreciate this place, and him, more and more. Where I'd worked before, I'd become bogged down in rules and restrictions. But from him I relearned the fire and passion for policing that I'd felt as a young man, when I first joined the Force as a raw young constable.

"Those of us who worked on his team can testify that there has never been a Guv like him. He worked us all to our limits and beyond. He bullied us, belittled us, and brought out the best in us. He made us discover qualities that we didn't know we had. He took a perverse pride in being a bastard. There were times when we all hated him. But, God, how we loved him. A gruff "Well done" from him was worth more than a chest full of medals or a wall covered in framed commendations. There was not a person who worked for him, who was not changed for the better by the experience. He would have risked his life for any of us, just we would for him.

"Beneath that tough exterior was a heart of gold, although he would have slaughtered anyone who said so. He touched countless lives. I see many here today, who were victims of crimes which he investigated. Many of them will have been grateful for his compassion when he comforted them, in his rough way, after tragedy struck their lives. Others he bawled out until they managed to remember the vital detail which enabled him to bring the perpetrators to book. One thing is certain - nobody who knew him will ever forget him.

"Now the Manc Lion has gone to his den for ever. Nobody will ever know what was going through his mind, on the night when he left us for the last time. All we do know, is that earlier that evening, he had visited a long-abandoned flat formerly occupied by a woman who had once worked on his team. It had been preserved like a shrine, perhaps to a lost love. Who knows how much his thoughts may have been clouded by sad memories while he drove along by the river? A small lapse of concentration sent his car off course and robbed us of him for ever.

"He is gone, but his work will never be over. He will never be forgotten. Everything his team do from now on will be dedicated to his memory. He is, and always will be, the Guv."

-oO0Oo-

The following morning, a tall young man with dark, curly hair strode confidently into Fenchurch East CID. He wore a smart charcoal grey suit, and a black overcoat was draped about his shoulders.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is John Burroughs. I'm your new DCI."

**THE END**


End file.
